The Theory of Narritivity
by Gandalf the Beige
Summary: When the borders between worlds grow thin, can a city fight off an attacker that can't be bribed? Can wizards love? Can Nobby keep his new firearm and is a monarchal push inevitable... if but for a short while? PonderLucy with a little MR hearts EW.
1. Busted

Discworld: Theory of Narrativity

Disclaimer: Terry Pratchett owns all and the rights to all. I'm just indulging my imagination by using settings and characters to supplement a tale going on in a universe of rules and laws of nature, the one inhabited by the characters of _Gargoyles_ co-producer Greg Weisman. And when you not only cancel funds, but also meddle in the affairs of the enemies of the recipients of those funds, you should REALLY expect retribution, especially from bloodthirsty clones and their masters. Slight Harry Potter partisan shippery at the very end.

Rated PG-13 for Reproductive Thaumaturgy, retroviruses, interspecies breeding, invasion of the Sto plains to the gates of Lancre, wizards (well, one of the younger ones) with romantic lives and Nobby Nobbs with a Thompson submachine gun. This can't be good.

* * *

**High summer, Year 100 of the Century of the Fruitbat (approximately 2000 C.E. Earth time)**

The sun rose like the yolk of some celestial egg over the disc, the dawn flowing over plains and through valleys, sometime getting snagged in places where background magic was at its highest. Morning eventually came to the cities of the hubward shore of the Circle Sea, largest of which were the twin cities of Ankh and Morpork, more commonly referred to simply as Ankh-Morpork. Light found its way through the small, high windows of the Unseen University, signalling the start to the working day… for the faculties' two early risers.

Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of the University, was presently debating which strategy to use on this mornings duck hunt on the Ankh delta: nets and throwing spears, or a solidly built Burleigh&Stronginthearm crossbow.

The other early riser had awoken well before the dawn had reached the Big Wahoonie. The Librarian, a wizard who had been turned into a large, non-dominant male orang-utan during the Octavo incident, had already fed the books whatever they took a fancy too (1) and opened the library doors to those curious, brave or foolish enough to enter. As of now he was shoving some notes into a folder and gathering a dark hooded robe in his lanky arms.

For the past several years, as well as administering to his duties as librarian to the largest collection of books in existence and sitting on the Librarians council, the former wizard had also been an honorary member of a secret society he had discovered while on an expedition through L space. It was located on a planet called Earth… a real Roundworld, identical in every detail to the one in the miniature universe created last winter.

There were two exceptions though: firstly, there lived a type of sentient creature on this round world there that was frozen in stone during daylight hours. Unlike mountain trolls, who were always stone and merely went comatose due to the heat of the sun, these creatures, these 'Gargoyles' (although they bore very little resemblance to Disc native Gargoyles) shed a layer of stone skin at nightfall to reveal skin and muscle underneath. The second was that something… _else_ had found it first. And against all odds these two were connected.

Tying the trailing end of a ball of yellow yarn to one of the legs of his desk and settling the ball firmly between the cloak and his side, the Librarian set off into the shelves.

There was going to be a meeting, a very important one if the writing on the lavatory bulletin board (better than the walls) was anything to go on. And the Grandmaster would be very cross if even one honorary member of the 13th Circle was late for this one… apes included.

* * *

1 Hour later, Illuminati Rotunda, Location Unknown

An emergency meeting had been called of all Illuminati members, circles 2 through 30 including the Grandmaster (who was essentially the entirety of the first circle). The purpose of this meeting was to vote on whether to continue funding to Jon Canmores' Quarryman Organization. Up in the 13th row, the Librarian (now hooded and cloaked) looked through his notes until he found Canmores' rap sheet.

Jon Canmore (alias Jon Castaway, alias Jon Carter), it read, had been contacted by the Illuminati back in November 1996 to force the Manhattan gargoyle clan to accept the Societies' help through raids and hunting, and subsequently make them (the gargoyles) easier to control. This plan had gone seriously pear shaped however, when the first full-scale assault of the Eyrie Building in mid-December of the same year had turned into a complete rout.

It was discovered that instead of the six reported gargoyles and one watchbeast inhabiting the castle on the buildings summit, the landing party had been witness to the awakening of at least 140 gargoyles of all ages as well as over a dozen watchbeasts, outnumbering Canmore and his landing party by at least 3 to 1. Quite the battle ensued before everyone was unconscious or captured.

This had resulted in 38 arrests, 1 cowardly retreat while being pelted with snowballs and one switching of sides. This had led to an upsurge in the recruitment of criminals, mercenaries and other…_undesirables_ (2) into the quarrymen's ranks. This, in turn, precipitated a wholesale change in tactics, ranging from muggings to murders of gargoyle supporters to car bombs… and on through other icky things, up to and including the attempted (and unsuccessful) assassination of the President of the United States.

This was also about the time that the society's psychics started trying to look into Castaways (as he insisted on being called) mind in order to make sense of it. They always started out okay, moving up through the minds of the quarrymen ranks (wincing as they ran across the occasional serial killer or professional assassin), but near the top they began sweating profusely and shivering violently, then their eyes began dilating like crazy, finally emitting an ear splitting scream and keeling over dead. That usually meant that whatever intelligence was really controlling the organization was _not _humanoid, and was incredibly powerful to say the utter least.

His reading had to end when Mr. Duval, the Grandmaster of the Illuminati and sole member of the First Circle strode through the tunnel set into the far slope of the Rotunda. The vast space fell silent as chatter and idle conversation died and gave way to sombre ceremony as he halted in the exact centre of the floor

"Kings may die. Empires may fall. Civilizations may crumble to dust." Intoned Duval as he pulled his hood up to frame his face. "The only constant… is our broth..." someone on the far side of the rotunda cleared their throat pointedly. "…siblinghood. We are Illuminatus: keepers of secrets long since lost, keepers of knowledge long since forgotten. Whatever transpires in the outside world, we shall remain to watch and wait and manage. Always remember this, and the world shall go as it always has." As he intoned a platform rose beneath him, raising him level with the topmost ring.

He sat down in a chair that formed itself out of the risen floor and began the meeting. "This emergency meeting has been called for a simple purpose: to vote whether continued funding to Jon Canmores Organization is actually worth the trouble." He pressed a button on the chairs arm that put images of various Quarrymen-related disasters on the screens inserted on the tabletops in front of the members.

"As you can see, despite our initial hopes for using Canmore as a sheepdog to get the Gargoyles under our control, things have spiralled so far out of our grasp that this vote will determine whether we _dump_ a _loose cannon_ or keep him on, _risking_ our secrecy and investments _more_ and _more_." It was a known fact that when he reiterated, he meant business. He himself didn't seem the most impartial observer, but the Quarrymen _had_ caused quite a lot of damage to several historic properties he owned while searching for sleeping gargoyles.

"As you can probably tell from the panic the accounting offices have been in, Canmores followers have not only done millions of dollars of property damage, but they have also embezzled several hundreds of millions from our holdings in the Yakuza, Mafia, and the Triad… which means, among other things, that the price of raffle tickets at this autumns social will increase by 700 percent." Duval quickly dispatched a wry smile that had threatened to form. "On top of that, many of you know that his recruitment of the criminal element is sending his public image into the toilet, with last years 'monastery massacre' of 79 elderly gargoyle Franciscans being the most horrendous of his escapades." The obligatory still frames of the recorded atrocity flashed across the inset screens.

"His actions against those sympathetic to gargoyle kind have been no less atrocious: bombings, murders, the attempted massacre of an entire Japanese village, not to mention various forms of intimidation including drive-by shootings, more bombings, and various forms of assault." Several faces of the societies more prudish members went a light shade of green under their hoods as they realized exactly what forms off assault the average New York City low-life specialized in.

"Fortunately, things could have been far worse if not for the valiant efforts of Goliaths' clan as well as those of gargoyles worldwide (3), which reinforces the potential service they could be to the Society, if approached through more… subtle channels." It was now surprisingly clear that anyone that voted to keep the Quarrymen on would most likely find his station reduced, his privileges revoked, and his prospects for future reproduction highly questionable. Then the vote began in earnest, with only one instruction from Duval: press the plus button to keep Canmore on, or the minus button to boot him.

The outcome was 1869 against, and absolutely none for.

Later, when sipping port and eating peanuts in a lounge paneled excessively with mahogany and thick red carpet, the Librarian was seated at a bar between two lower echelon members: a swarthy, well groomed man with minor ponytail and Vetinari-esqe goatee from the 16th Circle and a tall, red haired ex-fed from the looks of it from Circle #23. They were discussing over his head the problems some of their friends were having trying to have a child now that they were married. The Librarian did not like being left out of this conversation, so he asked if he could offer anything, which the in-house universal translator put together from "Ook?"

"Not unless you're into some powerful magic, no." Stated the red haired man, hereby referred to as Matthew 'Matt' Bluestone. The Librarian replied that while no longer a practicing wizard, he was the Librarian of the Unseen University, home to some of the greatest magical minds in existence. After being given a copy of the wedding photograph of the needy couple by the swarthy man (David Xanatos of Xanatos Enterprises), namely the eight and a half foot tall purple gargoyle known worldwide as Goliath and his Hopi/African American wife, one Elisa Maza Wyvern, the Librarian further added that he knew some innovative young lads that would probably give their right feet for a chance to research magic like this. Taking up a pencil and cocktail napkin, the Librarian began jotting down some basic ideas.

* * *

Later still…

Back at the University, after having stashed the cloak and folder and holding the napkin, the Librarian knuckled toward the dining hall where he predicted the staff and students would be assembled for breakfast: it _was_ almost noon after all.

The wizards were indeed starting in on the second course of breakfast, the old codgers of the senior staff trying to keep the old habit of searching their food for glass shards under control as they ate. The younger staff, especially those that busied themselves in the High Energy Magic building, sat at a table in a far corner, waving their hands excitedly as they discussed things in the relatively new language of scientific thaumaturgy.

Amid this flail of scorched robe sleeves and the occasional shower of spittle and scrambled egg, the head of the Department of Inadvisably Used Magic and Reader of Invisible Writings, one Ponder Stibbons, sat tensely. It was not the sort of tense that the Bursar had possessed before going totally insane, but more akin to something predatory waiting for something small and succulent to wander past. He was waiting for something, but could surely be bothered to look at these notes for a few minutes. The Librarian knuckled over and swung onto a clear space of bench beside the young wizard. He had just tapped Professor Stibbons on the shoulder when the call of a very large bird of prey split the musty air.

Rincewind, Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography (as well as being the fretwork instructor along with half a dozen other miscellaneous tasks), spotted the source of the sound, a huge Lancre Ice Eagle lunging through a high window, and promptly dived under the table screaming something to the affect of "Wizards and Apes First!" (4). The rest of the staff was somewhat more relaxed, holding their utensils and staves defensively, the students copying Rincewind. Ponder Stibbons… didn't do anything, besides look expectantly toward the bird. The eagle held the strap of a leather bag in its beak, dropping it during a low swoop over the table the Librarian was sitting at. Said bag was dropped onto Professor Stibbons' eggs.

"Mail call!" yelled the Bursar unexpectedly, a boiled egg stuck in each ear.

As the eagle flapped into a roosting position on one of the main rafters, the Staff began looking toward Stibbons with some curiosity. Mail didn't usually arrive by way of a huge eagle, and certainly not from a particularly rare breed from the high Ramtops. When the librarian looked over at the bag, he just got a glimpse of the gold and black bears of the Kingdom of Lancre before Stibbons got up and hurried towards the door. He was just yards away when he collided with the impressive obstacle that was the Dean of Pentacles… things five-sided (5).

The other members of the senior staff fenced Stibbons in as they began looking at the bag. "Why in such a hurry, Professor Stibbons?" Asked the Dean, in a voice trying to be inquisitive, demanding and non-threatening all at the same time.

"VeryPerishableMagicalSamplesFromLancreHaveToGetThemToHexQuickly!" Blurted Stibbons, in the age-old manner of someone who is doing a very bad job of trying to divert attention from what they are doing.

The Lecturer of Recent Runes glanced up at the eagle perched up in the rafters, who stared back at him in an unsettlingly familiar manner. "An Eagle that size cant possibly move that fast over the plains: glide long distances yes, but not very fast." He looked again at the young wizard "If it came all the way from Lancre, it can't be very perishable."

"That's right!" Proclaimed the Senior Wrangler, 20 stone of joviality and magical talent behind a handlebar moustache.

After a brief consideration, Stibbons finally groaned and held the bag out at arms length toward the others. "Alright, alright. You can take a look. Just don't open anything!"

They began passing around the contents of the bag: paper envelopes thick with documents or lumpy with samples along with a small wrapped parcel or two. It was the last envelope, of course, that got all the attention. It was small, and made of some of the most well bleached paper the wizards had seen outside the university walls. It also had a seal of dark blue wax, on which was stamped the image of a wizards or witches hat torn in two, brim from cone, inside a circle of standing stones.

It also smelled like perfume.

The Dean slid the envelope under his nose while taking a good long sniff. He then glared a hard, sidelong look at Ponder. "Is there something you're not telling us Stibbons?"

"Yes. _Is _there something you'd like to share?" came a bellowing voice from a suddenly open doorway. Said voice belonged to Archchancellor Ridcully, a sight to behold in muddy boots, muddy britches; muddy everything really up to his armpits. In his right hand was held a crossbow, and in his left the mortally disjointed necks of three Delta paddlers. The look on his face, despite the volume of his voice, wasn't angry or even upset. It was worse.

It was curiosity.

The Dean strolled over to where Mustrum was handing off the ducks to a kitchen maid to be prepared into a private dinner this evening. "Archchancellor, Professor Stibbons has gotten a _very_ suspicious letter. Smell it." And so the Archchancellor did, and halfway through, his bushy eyebrows rose in comprehension.

"Interesting." Muttered Ridcully, a sound made quite interesting when even his whisperings were known to be a few decibels louder than a normal stage whisper. He eyed Stibbons. "My office, now." He marched off toward the stairs with Ponder doing a virtual death-march behind. In the commotion of scrambling to other matters, no one noticed the Orang-utan following them.

* * *

Mustrum Ridcully sat down in the leather-padded chair behind his desk (i.e. his snooker table) and twirled the envelope in his fingers. He smelled it again: definitely Ramtop Heath Heather. The flower had been the signature of Lancre matchmakers for as long as anyone could recall, since before the Dancers had fallen from the sky. Why, it had been one of witches from Mad Stoat that had recommended it for…

"Archchancellor?" Ridcully managed to pull off of memory lane to comprehend the nervous junior staff member standing in his presence.

"Ah. Right." Ridcully moved his hand to the edge of the table, where a slim knife had been stuck into the ancient wood beside a pocket and jerked it out. He drew it close and slid it under the seal, opening the envelope. Out came a letter, which the senior wizard proceeded to read.

It was mostly written in the formal matter of a Ramtopper who had been schooled on the plains and was still too young to realize that most of it counted as useless drivel back home. There was iron this and elves that and a mention of something called "Magnetism" that the dwarfs had apparently cobbled out of bad Latatian and the name of one of Copperheads historic overseers.

It was the last part of this letter that caught his attention. He read it aloud

"…And on one last note, that ear of yours is looking pretty gnarly. I know of a traveling Igor who comes down to the castle town every fall for the harvest and felling seasons and I hear that they're beginning to do some miraculous things with bio-artificing in the Ankh Morpork City Watch. You might want to go in for a replacement… but on the other hand, it does lend a sort of "Greebo-esqe" quality to a character, which can be found… _fascinating_.

Yours Truly

Lucy Tockley, Research Assistant"

The Archchancellor eyed Stibbons with almost a hint of disbelief at what had actually been written. "Ponder?"

"Yes sir?" Stibbons was surprised at this using of given names, but decided not to risk the anger of a Ramtop squire by using 'Mustrum'.

"Have you ever seen Mrs. Oggs cat? The one with the scars?" Asked Mustrum (luckily, I don't have that fear).

"I believe so. He fought several of the elves at the royal wedding. Why?"

"Because that ca… because that _thing_ is not only one of the fiercest predators Rimwards of Uberwald, but is also the entire male side of the Lancre feline stock, and has a habit of turning human under stress… a "roguishly handsome brute" some as young ladies might say in polite company." He stood and leaned in close to Ponders face. "There are only _two_ reasons a Ramtopper would compare you to that cat: as an insult… or as is suggested here, as an indication of not-so-platonic friendship between the genders." He took the chance to motion the letter opener pointedly "_Has_ something been going on that shouldn't have?"

Ponder scrunched up his face in agony before saying very plainly "No." Ridcully slumped back and sighed in relief. If there was one thing the Disc did _not_ need right now, it was another sourcerer. "But…"

Oh, no. There it is, thought Ridcully: The requisite '_but_'. Why did this always happen? Most likely he was going to invite her for drinks at the pub on his next trip over. "Yes?"

"I _did_ plan to invite her for a port and lemon at the pub when I went to finalize the recharging of the Dancers… under Mistress Weatherwaxs supervision of course." The last part had been a hurried addition borne out of having the fear of Weatherwax put into you. "And at the advice of Mrs. Ogg."

Ridcully sighed again, this time in agitation. "Stibbons…"

"I know it's against the rules, but I was thinking that if we never… well." Ponder closed his eyes, debating whether to mention the Archchancellor and his student romance with the one known in troll as "She who must be avoided".

"Ook!"

The Librarian had waited until they got to something like this to make his point. When he had scribbled those notes on that napkin, he had never thought the same basic principles could be applied to the _opposite_ of their original intention. If fertility could be improved by magic, why couldn't it be _impeded_?

"Oh, it's you." By now the Librarians shape was so ordinary to the staff and students that the complaint of an ape in the library by a foreign visitor would result in an all day search by a student under the direction of the Librarian. Ridcully listened to the apes' short presentation and read the napkin, and in short order was unusually happy in the absence of something to kill. To the newly relaxed Stibbons he said "You may just be the luckiest wizard in a very long time."

Then, taking a theatrically deep breath that gave both of his audience time to clap their ears, he let forth his traditional battle cry.

"BUUURRRSAAAARRR!"

The door exploded inward in a tumble of staff (wizards) and their staves, the now de-egged Bursar somehow keeping on top in a perfect standing posture. "Yes, Archchancellor?" Today had been double-up day on the dried frog pills, so acting like a sugar addict wasn't totally out of the question.

"Contact His Lordship, no doubt he'll be very interested in what this could mean." Commanded Ridcully as he stood and began striding out through the mess of staggeringwizards with the Librarian and Professor Stibbons following. Indeed, after the death of Wallace Sonky last autumn and rumours of divine smiting put forward by the more orthodox sects; Morporkians were looking for another method of solving the housing crises. This could have citywide implications.

"What about my… situation?" asked Ponder as he caught up with the Archchancellors pace.

"_You_ will be working with the Librarian on finding a solution for that married couple and then find a way to turn it around for Lord Vetinari." But then Ridcully stopped, allowing the Bursar to continue on his merry way while he turned to Stibbons. "Tell you what. You'll probably have to go up to the Long Man in this fertility research, and if you get the chance… have another little talk with Gytha."

At this Ponder was shocked, happy but shocked that the Archchancellor had allowed that last part. As everyone dispersed again, The Librarian was left alone in the hall, wondering if he should have mentioned the eagle listening outside the window.

* * *

Lancre, sometime later

The Ice Eagle swooped low through the trees until it came to a cottage so twisted and overgrown in the thatch that it hardly looked liveable. One of the windows had been left open, and the bird wedged itself inside.

Ten minutes later the eagle burst out the front door, the butchered carcass of a yearling stag in its talons. After it, though through the back, came the ragged black-clad visage of Esmerelda (Granny) Weatherwax coming down the steps. Hat was in place and cloak fastened; her rather impressive image was only slightly marred by the fact that she seemed a bit tired and her face pale.

At start of the herb patch was waiting Nanny Ogg, a small, raisin-faced woman who would nevertheless inform you that her portrait (7) was hanging in far away Ankh Morpork, and had authored the discs first cookbook that featured… goings on in massive quantity. She was carrying a jug of water in one hand and a tray that bore a cup and some sort of biscuits in a tin.

"You shouldn't be doing this Esme, borrowing an eagle to the city and back. Remember the fly business?" She handed Granny the cup and jug, then turned around. After a barely audible _twing_, she turned around again with a glass bottle of cloudy orange liquid in hand. Pulling out the cork with her gums, she carefully partitioned a single drop into the jug.

Taking a sip out of a filled glass, Esme looked at her companion. "I had to make it an event. You know how I hate deception."

"I thought you hated… 'Goings on' as well?" Asked Mrs. Ogg with more than a hint of ribald

"It's not that I _hate_ it, just that I _disapprove_. Deception is another thing altogether… _theatre, opera_… it only masks what's real. What was between Stibbons and the Tockley girl _is_ real, so I just couldn't let it be hid. That only leads to problems" Granny stated this quite plainly. "It's like those letters you got last spring. The ones with the young man with the red haired ex-girlfriend who was fun and exciting, but was getting feelings for his brown-haired female school-chum who always kept him from getting killed?"

"Oh, yes. I remember those." Gytha said as they walked back into the house. "I remember that you wanted to personally _break_ both of the redheads ankles before it was all done." The door closed.

* * *

1. Usually the leaflets made and distributed by the City Watch's resident Omnian.

2. The kind who burns crosses and shouts 'sieg heil'

3. Except for a small network of recovering clans in western China that the Hunter had decimated shortly after the Revolution, which led to an all out loss of sympathy for humankind

4. It was really very considerate of him

5. Which was very unusual in a system of magic that was based around the number 8 (6)

6. Or, as the staff were very careful to say, "seven plus one"

7. Though three or four decades out of date (8)

8. Biologically, not counting the time-freeze


	2. Meetings

The Theory of Narrativity

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own nothing… in fact, I own the toddler emperor of the Agatean Empire (double negative pun… it'll probably get me a stay in the scorpion pit). Aside from that, I don't own anything besides some plot and a few ideas. That's my lot in life.

Takes place roughly 2 months after _Night Watch _and _Thief of Time_.

Summary: Brothers meet and debate, a lord contemplates, and yet another invitation goes unanswered. Also, aristocratic rumblings in Sto Lat set in motion more than what was bargained for.

* * *

**The Winter Palace, Ankh Morpork, Later that day (Grune 22nd).**

Mustrum Ridcully never had much of a problem with clocks. They were punctual, which helped him get up in time to squeeze in a little jogging before sunrise. They were also very accurate: the new models with gears and springs sometimes woke you up in the middle of dreams that an imp would see you were enjoying, and that helped you with the cold showers. But ever since came back down from the mountains he had never experienced a clock so… accurately unsteady. They said that the Patrician had specifically ordered the Clockmakers Guild to stop the flow of medication to one of their 'special' members to get a clock like this built. It kept perfect time, but the irregular ticking could turn a man to jam (1) if kept waiting long enough.

Sitting across from him in the anteroom to the Oblong Office was the High Priest of the Cults of Blind Io, more commonly known as Hughnon '5th Son' Ridcully. Why he was here Mustrum could probably gather just from rumour: bad enough that Hughnon had spearheaded that whole 'the gods punished the rubber-wally maker' nonsense, but that he was here now opened up an entirely new can of bait. Just the thought that a Thaumaturgic approach was being taken to soften the housing crisis would set the collective priesthood off like Wow Wow sauce on a charcoal biscuit.

"So," began Mustrum. "What's new in the realm of easily bored deities?" Small talk was never his strong point, but right now it was the only form of communication that wouldn't end up summoning the guards by the noise, thus upsetting the clerks, thus making Lord Vetinari very unhappy.

"Oh, not anything especially fascinating." Hughnon put a finger to his forehead as he began reciting the updated mythology. "Apparently Blind Io is having eye trouble again... running off and all. Offler the Crocodile God has a series of cavities and the sausage offerings have been tainted recently and it appears that someone has been loading the dice. On the same note, what's new in the realm of calling forth unspeakable evils from the depths of the ether?"

"Not much, not much." Mustrum wanted to get to the point quickly. "Although there is a very exciting new project some of the younger lads have burrowed into. Not to mention that one of them has…" Mustrum swallowed "fallen in love."

Hughnon raised his eyebrows. "I thought you fellows frowned upon those sort of things. They say it causes… problems (2)." Hughnon was looking disapprovingly at his younger brother as if wondering 'whatever happened to standards'.

"Oh, the Dean has an idea: we just take Stibbons to Dr. Lawns new Free Hospital after child #5 and have some work done on his plumbing… although I'm very sure that a human body doesn't have any pipes or fixtures included in it. We were all very confused at that point." Mustrum scratched his head while Hughnon sighed and put a hand over his face. Stibbons… it _had_ to be Stibbons: the same tinker that was bleeding all ceremony from magic also had his eyes on a female. Magic may have been at the other end of the social spectrum, but ceremony as a whole was far too important to simply dismiss in the name of efficiency. The thought of more like him chilled Hughnon in ways the threat of eternal damnation never could.

"Excuse me sirs?" A voice interrupted the brothers' conversation. Looking up, the bearded men recognized it as Rufus Drumknott, Vetinari's head clerk, who was leaning out from behind the half-open door.

"Yes?" Asked Hughnon, removing his hand from his face.

"The Patrician will see both of you now." Said Drumknott as he opened the office door wider. Both men rose and proceeded into the office.

Havelock Vetinari was currently sitting behind his desk, reading a letter. Since the Post Office was currently in some disarray, it was probably from some far flung embassy that felt that the clacks was far to public. "Ah, Gentlemen. Do have a seat." He never even looked up from reading the letter.

The brothers Ridcully sat down in two chairs that had been conveniently placed to be as hard and uncomfortable as possible, while catching the glair from the sun through the office window. "Your Lordship," Began Mustrum. "I'm sure you know why we're here. It is to discuss…"

"The possible use of magic as a form of birth control. Yes, I find it rather intriguing." The Patrician lifted his gaze to the brothers. "But I thought it was a University guideline not to distribute magic freely among the populace? May I ask what brought about this… generosity?"

It's Stibbons, your Lordship!" Interjected Hughnon, his voiced raised. "That young tinker's finally found his hormones and…" His voice softened and became genteel. "Apparently my brother does not want another Sourcerer incident to arise. I, however, feel that allowing this at all will not be conductive to the works of the city: if wizards can have… relationships, the younger priesthood may get _ideas_ of their own. It took centuries for the major religions to iron out the inheritance messes before mandatory celibacy was proclaimed. It could impact badly on the workings of the cities religious community." If Vetinari had _one_ weakness, it was devotion to his city and its workings.

Vetinari was surprised that such a fluid argument had come from a Ridcully. He took the opportunity to lean back in his chair: this exchange might prove entertaining. "A very well researched point, your holiness." Said the Patrician in the same tone of voice that a Civics teacher gets when their students can finally debate a coherent point (3). "Archchancellor, do you have a counter to your brother?"

Archchancellor Ridcully, who had been preparing for this part of the meeting for the last 4 hours, did. "Indeed I do, your lordship." Mustrum rose from his seat and strode to the window for a look out over the city. "As you are aware, the housing shortage isn't a shortage anymore. It has passed through the crisis phase and now an appropriate descriptor is outside the Morporkian language. It's gone quantum on us, with five or six families living to a house in some places. Gutters are being fitted for carpeting and outdoor privies are becoming indoor ones."

He turned his head back towards his audience. "That is why we are proposing a… partnership between the University and the medical community. If we do the appropriate research and then assist the Alchemists Guild (providing it doesn't blow up again) and some specialized Artificers to create… concoctions and devices aimed to reduce fertility, we can let the _good _doctors distribute and implement them, preferably through Dr. Lawns Hospital. The Preventative industry _will_ need some official support however, even when these planned things become affordable." It had taken three straight hours of research, anatomy charts and small words in order to come up with this and if it didn't work, the Senior Wrangler would wish he'd _never_ made his interest known.

Vetinari finally spoke, a genuine curiosity about him. "A very good series of points. I must say that I am impressed by this unexpected show of intellect and cunning from the pair of you; I'll be sure to look into it as soon as possible."

He turned to the High Priest. "Your Excellence, your point was quite compelling, but I am afraid that the Archchancellor has made the stronger case. While the priesthood just could make denying inheritance to spouses a matter of law, population control is something that cannot simply be put into a book and implemented without impinging on our essential freedoms (4)." He turned to Mustrum "This promises to be a measurable boon to the running of the city and to our sanitation efforts. Which Professor is to be in charge of the research phase, if I may ask?"

"Stibbons, of course. I may not always understand what he says, but he is obviously the best qualified to oversee something this… unusual." Mustrum decided to ignore his brothers' rumblings; it would do their mother no good to hear of an argument between her boys.

"Of course. And may I offer my congratulations to whichever young…" Havelock paused to find the modern all-encompassing word "being has caught his interest."

"Oh, no need for that modern talk, your Lordship. It's Ms. Tockley, the one who started up the Broken Circle coven before it got broken." _And nearly got herself killed by her own pigheadedness… Maybe the lad and I aren't so different after all_.

"Excellent then. I see no reason to detain you any longer." He picked up the speaking tube on his desk. "Drumknott, please show these gentlemen out." He said into it, his face slightly to one side to avoid missing teeth in case of a cross with the message tube system.

As the clerk began showing them out, Vetinari actually called Archchancellor Ridcully back momentarily. He handed Mustrum the letter. "I know the characters are Agatean, but what does the thing say?" asked the wizard.

"It is an invitation from the vizier to your Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography to celebrate in close company the Birthday of the Most August and Celestial Emperor of the Known World, the Tamer of the land of Ghosts and the Driver of the Sun and the Moon." Vetinari didn't miss a beat in reciting the shorthand of the official title.

"Hmm, never knew he knew the new managers after Cohen left. How is the old boy, anyway?" Asked Mustrum jovially.

"I think this is the emperors _second_ birthday so far. Although obtaining an official date of birth is a bit difficult without wading through the thankfully simplified palace bureaucracy." He changed the subject. "By the way, I assume you'll be taking the morning coach to Lancre in order to finalize professor Stibbons work on the Stone circle re-magnetization project."

"No, actually. The weather is too nice for a coach and that thunderstorm coming off the mountains is too close to the plains to catch with one." Ridcully began heading out. "Besides, I want to bring someone a gift, and this weather is _perfect _for flying."

In any ordinary man, this would have caused both eyebrows to rise, but Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh Morpork, simply paused for a moment before going back to his work, such as reviewing the new troubles the Grand Trunk was experiencing and catching up on the latest gossip from among the Sto Lat Nobility.

* * *

**6 PM, Grune 22nd, The Great Hall, Sto Lat Castle, Sto Lat.**

At the present time, Queen Kelirehenna the 1st, "Lord" of Sto lat, Protector of the 8 Protectorates and Empress of that disputed property Hubwards of Sto Kerrig, was overseeing the daily banquet. This included eating, carousing, seeing to it that the dogs got a fair share of the scraps, and also seeing to the latest court gossip… or scandal.

"The way _I_ see it," began Helen, Lady of Protectorate #3 "is that, if a young man goes through all the trouble of evading the security of an upstanding primary school just to have an intimate meeting with one of the female teachers, the young man is rather serious about the relationship. Don't you think so, Nathaniel?" Her husband, the Earl of Protectorate #3, nodded and mumbled agreement as he set into another spiced pork rib.

"Well, it may _sound_ dashing when it happens to a stranger, but when the woman in question is the _Duchess_ of Sto Helit, it should be found rather embarrassing." Replied Roderick, the 47-year-old Duke of Sto Kerrig from the other side of the table. "He _is_ a Thieves Guild foundling, after all, so such things wouldn't be too difficult. All in all I find it rather disgraceful: One of our major nobles plays teacher in Ankh Morpork and runs around with young men while her Duchy needs her. What do you think, Your Majesty?" He asked the Queen.

Kelirehenna, whose nose was currently buried in the latest edition of the _Ankh Morpork Times_, roused to reply in regal capacity. "I think you're exaggerating, Roderick. She has never had much luck at all with the opposite sex due to her… unusual mannerisms. And her choice to act as a wage-earning teacher is her choice, after all. She's determined to live in a world of meaningful employment, and she is very good with her students."

"Well, if she is indeed so eager to be 'meaningfully employed', then she would best do so by serving Sto Helit: begin to search for a husband to take on the title of Duke and to father heirs, that sort of thing. Her education would also be a bonus in the ducal workings, I suppose." Admitted Roderick. "What is the name of this mysterious young man anyway?" he asked the general air.

"Lobsang Ludd, your excellence! Apparently, he studied at some monastery or other near the hub!" shouted one of the young noblemen from the far end of the table, where he was waving a bone in front of one of the big, shaggy dogs, who looked about ready to just take the thing and drag any insolent fingers along for the ride.

"Hmm, a monk probably. Very dangerous that is, seducing impressionable young men from religious orders. You eventually run into trouble." He turned back to the Queen. "I think it's about time that we called her home and made her face reality. Running around with a monk isn't the safest marital choice, as opposed to fine Sto lads… like my nephew Thaddeus: a good, upstanding lad, never disrespected his station, likes to collect pins…"

Kelirehenna broke into the Dukes favourable description. "Roderick, we've known each other a very long time. You know that I wouldn't force Susan to do anything she didn't want to do. It's her choice to make about when she returns and whom she eventually decides to wed. I owe her that much courtesy for what her parents did for me at least, isn't that right, Igneous?"

Igneous Cutwell, court wizard, currently was engrossed in the pages of the _Sto Plains Dealer_ (5). "Oh yes, of course, courtesy." He ventured distractedly. "It would also be very dangerous to get on her bad side… girl has a thaumic signature like nothing any of _you_ have ever seen." This last part was an indecipherable mumble through the pages.

Kelirehenna turned back to the nobles and sighed. "But you have a point about monks. They're usually celibate, so this _could _cause some problems"

"Well, _I_ think it's rather romantic: two wayward lovers risking all in the name of love, meeting secretly…" Began Helen.

"And being caught in a supply closet in mid-snog by a 6 year old female student. Dear, you have to stop reading so many Klatchian love stories. They all end with someone taking poison or stabbing themselves in the heart or dying in a duel. And when they do live happily, they're still bound by convention and the spark of forbidden love fades." Said Nathaniel, helping himself to the cabbage soup.

"You have no sense of romance, do you know that?" said Helen.

"I'm just a pragmatist. If this ends well in the slightest, I'll pick cabbages with the peasants in the fields for an entire season, how does that sound?" Being that he was a well-toned former soldier, this wasn't really all that of a price (but still embarrassing).

Soon the table was alive with the making of wagers and more carousing. As the cabbage soup server headed back to the kitchens, he reflected on how his comrades would be _very_ interested in this new information.

* * *

1. Jelly wasn't nearly pliable enough for His Lordship. 

2. Referring to the creation of a wizard squared: the 8th son of an 8th son of an 8th son, a Sourcerer.

3. Somewhere near lunch on the last day of the term.

4. Like those to starve to death or commit suicide in the Mended Drum.

5. A far more _patriotic _publication in the opinions of some of the older nobles.


	3. Let the Games Begin

Theory of Narrativity

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Shite all.

Authors Notes: I recently came across a well written and thought provoking fan-work on the Lancre time jump and its effect on Eskarina. Going outside time for 15 years can cause alienation problems, so… well, something got out before they went to warp, as it were.

And we may yet discover what happened to the former Mayor of Sto Lat as mentioned in _Going Postal_.

According to this particular universe, _THE LAST HERO_ happened in AM 1990, summer (I.E. a month or so ago).

Description: Grand Entrances, explanations and reunions. And also what may be either Unseen Universities worst kept secret or its biggest non-issue. And just when all is going well… something strange happens.

* * *

**Lancre Town, Lancre, Dawn, Grune 23rd AM 2000 **

Lancre, as it is well known, is the Disc's most famous hub (1) of witches and witch-magic. Witch-Magic, at its core, is magic in its natural element: a practical, near shamanistic use of thaumalogy that hasn't changed much in the last few thousand years. It doesn't delve into the mysteries of the Thaum like Wizardry does, and is very sparse on the occult rituals and ceremony: You hang a horseshoe up in case an elf comes knocking, not because The Lady has any sort of Equestrian leanings.

That doesn't mean that a witch doesn't know the value of an image: what good is knowing all the old stuff and being able to do it if people don't _see _you as a witch with a pointy hat, black wardrobe and a good broomstick?

But even Lancre, a place where Magic is so thick that the resident Headless Horseman now works as a message runner for the Clacks, had never seen anything like what was about to happen.

Out of the Rimwards sky came a dot, tiny at first but growing rapidly. Following it came the distant, bellowing roar of a large-lunged, healthy man screaming in exhilaration and/or fear. Getting nearer, the dot took on a recognizable colour: dark red with a spot of grey near the top. In short order, the dot became a blur: a bellowing red projectile of fabric, flesh and wood sailed low over the square, skidded on what looked like a pair of blurry boots into an narrow alley between two buildings and crashed in a cacophony of snapping branches and tearing bramble in the forest behind.

Being that the town was both rather small (a village by plains standards) and hosting most of the countries manual labour, this arrival quickly turned the deceivingly silent inn into a source of considerable noise and activity, sending several people out into the street. These included Jason Ogg, national blacksmith; Shawn Ogg, who was most of the Castle staff; and lastly one young woman who was looking around… in a suspiciously expectant way.

Her appearance, in a less agriculturally dependent society, would have probably been perceived as near the commonly inflated standard for female attractiveness. Sand-Blond hair, a sculpted face and a slim, tall figure would most likely made her desirable by young men from the city (2).

These things would have, in other dimensions, also pegged her for many undesirable traits: being a cheerleader for example, which is described in some universes as one of the lower hominid life forms (Being higher than only professional wrestling announcers, _male_ cheerleaders, Mary-Sues and, arguably, Corporal Nobbs). A general snootiness would have followed, consisting of a curious mixture of vanity and arrogance caused by the ability to net the courteous-but-not-so-bright Captain of the Rugby team. This would have caused a great many other females to despise her in varying degrees of secrecy. In the end, the only place where such a gel might find a meaningful lives work is as a part of the Guild Of Seamstresses (_Not your Grandmothers thimble_). They also tend to die early in high-school horror movies.

This _would_ have probably described this girl not but five years ago. Emphasis on 'would'. The past few years had seen a transformation in Lucy Tockley that was nothing if not inspired. That callow girl of 17, who had almost gotten herself killed by consorting with homicidal Fae, was but a memory.

In place of a floppy black hat and veil, her hair had become two long braids wrapped around the circumference of her head (to hold pencils, or so she says). In lieu of the fashionable black dress was a hardwearing gown of thick, plain cotton with a heavy leather apron (littered with pockets) worn in the front. Fingernails that had once been painted black now were plain, utilitarian things hidden beneath gloves (which were leather and had all of their fingers attached). A single thaumic instrument on a string around her neck had replaced the Magrat-esqe occult baubles. And… she was _humble_. Gone too was the stupid hubris of youth, replaced with something approaching common sense.

Of course, getting attracted to a Wizard, even a junior one, isn't widely considered to be very sensible. Nor is being especially curious when working with said wizard.

Miss Tockley turned her head as she heard something shake itself loose from the bramble between the houses and exit the alley. She was slightly disappointed to recognize the figure as Archchancellor Ridcully, stiff from a night of riding a broom at high speed, instead of the Projects usual leader. "Good Morning, Archchancellor… where is Professor Stibbons? He was supposed to supervise the final preparations." Asked the girl once she was through with the practiced curtsy.

"Ah, well…" Began Mustrum, as he lifted the makeshift goggles from his eyes and hoisted onto his shoulder the broom he had rode in on. "Professor Stibbons has been reassigned to a very important project in the new Department of Thaumic Hygiene (3) and will be away for extended periods on fieldwork." He saw an acceptably hidden look of disappointment cross her face. "Don't worry," he said jovially. "Stibbons will be back here for research. And I must say that your letter was quite well written!"

The young woman's face lit up in a surprised blush "You… _read_ the letter?"

"And may I say that both you and Mr. Stibbons are lucky that I returned to the University when I did! The other senior staff had their hands on it, and would have opened it if I hadn't taken it. I'm sure they didn't overhear anything incriminating." Mustrum prepared to enter Sensitive Territory. "By the way… I know that this is really none of my business, but _why Stibbons_? As far as I can tell, he isn't the flashiest prize at the fair, and I don't know if he has ever…"

"If there is anything I've learned from Mistress Weatherwax, it is that _looks_ are not everything." Lucy interjected. "Ponder _is_ a man of learning, though. I've learned a lot by being in his company. Besides, he needed an assistant who knew the area around the Dancers and what risks the area held. Mrs. Ogg recommended me because I wasn't going to be allured by that green-blooded _bitch _again. Mistress Weatherwax approved: she said that I could 'do with a bit of playing second fiddle'. It's done both of us quite well, now to think of it."

"Yes… Esmerelda is quite clever like that…" Commented the grinning wizard, stepping once again out onto the wistful dreamscape of memory lane. But he soon shook himself out of it when he spied a humoured smile on the girls face, directed at him. "And may I ask what is so funny?" He asked her gruffly.

"Oh, nothing, nothing." She said, as if it _had _been nothing. "As to your inevitable question, 'Granny' went up to the stones with the carpenters and coppersmiths late last night; they had an Igor with them."

"Good. But I would like to point out that my next question was to inquire as to the location of Mrs. Ogg; I have to clear some things with her first." Mustrum felt as if he had inadvertently entered a contest of one-upmanship… or one-upwomanship, or possibly up_person_ship or… something.

"_Sure_ you were. Well, she's in the Inn anyway. Shawn doesn't have to show you where it is, does he?" Mustrum hadn't heard this sort of competitive banter since the last staff meeting, and to hear it from a _girl_…

"No, I do not. Now, if you will excuse me." He turned abruptly toward the Inn, nodding to the eldest and youngest Ogg sons as he passed them by.

When he entered the building, a giant cheer erupted: the Wizard was here (and sod it all if he wasn't a lot older) and the 'festivities' could begin. But first… breakfast was in order.

As he sat down on a stool and leaned the broom on the counter, the Archchancellor bellowed for a mug of beer. Beside him sat, already holding a mug, Gytha Ogg; her thatch of white curls supporting a willow-strutted black hat and her giant, feral monster of a cat, Greebo, hanging around her shoulders, surveying everything with a look of easy-going malice.

"I got those Iconographs you asked for, Mrs Ogg." Said Mustrum conversationally as he removed the strap of a bag from his shoulder and produced said pictures. "As well as a gift for Esmerelda." He motioned to the broom.

He handed Gytha the series of card squares. Shuffling through them happily, she eventually came to one of a baby who was maybe days old. "And what did they name this little cutie, now? Did they take any of my suggestions?" asked Gytha in the tone that baby-picture aficionados have down pat.

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Ogg. They said that 'Neville' was too hard to turn into a girls name and any form of 'Zachary' would get her teased at school. Simon was very firm about that. They named her Eglantine." The baby described was the third child and first daughter of Eskarina Smith and her partner, Simon Midgecreek, the other pictures being mostly Eglantine from different angles. He was only her partner because no priest or religion in the city had consented to marrying two graduates of Unseen University, lest they get blamed when another Sourcerer appeared.

Their graduation wasn't very widely known outside University circles: they never wore any of the usual wizard regalia, and never wore their bronze octagrams in public (or anywhere,as they were still sitting in their felt-lined boxes). Eskarina worked as a maths teacher at the Alchemist Guild charity school (that being her degree) while Simon had taken up the quite unique practice of using magic to create beautiful flowers that would disappear exactly 20 hours after being bought. If you needed disposable flowers quickly, their storefront off Welcome Soap was the place to go.

Their obvious lack of celibacy, as previously demonstrated by the existence of young masters Robert and Gregory Smith (4), had not set off the University like it had been expected to. Without either Eskarina or Simon actually _being_ wizards (meaning participating in the University functions), a certain protective shield of cognitive dissonance had solidified around the staff as to their relationship.

Stibbons, however…

"Well, Its good to hear from them, and it was quite a bit of thought from Esme regarding that note we sent before the jump. 'Might was well let the gel know what we're doing' she said. And I must say it probably saved us a tongue lashing later on." Gytha shook her head amusedly.

Mustrum chuckled, before looking back toward Ms. Tockley, who was primly sitting at a table, swirling the dregs in a cup of tea as to separate the last bit of drinkable tea out. "Speaking of _gels_, Esmerelda sure did a number on Mr. Stibbons assistant, didn't she?"

"Well, I let Esme take the credit, but it was a team effort. Every step of stern discipline has to be matched with a little bit of charm: a wink for a curtsy and all that. She got the banter down good from listening to Stibbons up at that shed they built up on the moor." When she saw Mustrum staring at her incredulously, his mouth gaping open, she began laughing in such a way that the roof rattled. "I know, I _know_ what you're thinking, but Esme was very strict about that. She's up with them nearly all the time, then accompanies them back to town: Lucy sleeps at my place and Ponder has a room here."

Gytha settled down as the Wizards beer was brought. "That's all you're having for breakfast?" she queried, looking at the mug.

Mustrum looked at his beer, and then shouted for a bowl of crackers. After he finished he stood up, grasped his lapels… and did the 40-yard dash for the privy.

12 hours on a broomstick will do that to a bladder.

**High Turnwise Moors, 11 AM, Grune 23rd, AM 1990**

"Are you sure you don't need any help Mr. Igor, what with all those… things?" Ridcully asked the hunched figure who was fiddling with wires at the bottom of a lightning rod. Mustrum was renowned for his one-track mind, so when the impression that Mr. Igor of _Igors R Us _had been involved in some horrible accident due to all the stitches he sported went into his head, it _stuck_. As such, he was still trying to offer assistance to the man in a thoroughly patronizing way.

"No need Thir, the manual you brought along ith motht inthructive. Although, I _wath_ ethpecting thomeone a bit… younger." Said the figure, looking up at the wizard though odd levelled eyes.

"It was an emergency reassignment, very hush-hush. I'm just here to make sure nothing blows up." Said Mustrum as he readjusted his grip on the crossbow he was holding. It was large, with a solid iron bolt primed in it. The stock was also plated with hammered iron riveted on, so as to provide a weighted bludgeon in the event that this went wrong. He walked back to the group assembled about 30 feet back. The royal family was there, along with most of the Oggs, Ms. Nitt, Ms. Tockley and, most importantly, two of the countries most senior witches.

Esmerelda Weatherwax stared towards the Hubward mountains. A storm was coming down from the high Ramtops, hard and fast, swelled with lightning and moisture bound for the loam of the plains. That didn't mean that Lancre was completely passed over: it got its share of the rain and the lightning, but a storm system only showed its true potential when it had ridden all the way down to Ankh Morpork or similar. This storm was their best bet at freeing themselves from the Gentry for another few thousand years, and she'd be buggered if she didn't make sure it was done right

Gytha (Nanny) Ogg was also supervising, but it wasn't the experiment. The Ogg daughters and Daughters-in-law had assembled a celebratory picnic at Nanny's urgings, and since she didn't trust anyone not to pinch something, she was watching it like hawk. She also did not want to miss the grand event, so the entire 50 pounds of sandwiches and preserve had been lugged up here. It would probably rain shortly, and the meal moved to the inn, but Nanny Ogg was one of those women who could convince you that _anything_ was worth trying at least once.

"Shouldn't be long now. One lightning bolt and those elves will only exist in a book… that is, if it's written right." Explained Ridcully to King Verence the 2, who was holding an iron crowbar. Queen Magrat of Lancre, nee Garlick, was wielding a skillet commandeered from the castle kitchens, all the time watching her toddling daughter play with the flowers and blades of the regularly cut moor grass. Jason Ogg was wielding a crossbow the same as Ridcully, while Shawn was clad in a mail tunic, an ancient pie-plate helmet and wielding an equally ancient Uberwald bearded axe In fact, most of the men were armed and armoured in some form of iron, be it iron cauldrons and pans or horseshoes tied to leather aprons in a primitive form of mail.

Eventually, the time was at hand. Igor did some last minute tinkering with the lightning rod connections and then hobbled away toward the crowd. The storm was directly overhead. Sparks flicked off the thick copper wire running, raised on wooden supports, from the base of the tower to a wood and copper construction built around the stone circle. Frameworks of wood supported copper tubes running the circumference, with pieces of mineral iron, identified by Stibbons as being similar to the stones and retrieved from Copperhead, positioned around.

A great spear of lightning suddenly spiked down from the clouds, turning the air blue-hot with the force of a sufficiently peeved intermediate god. It arced onto the tower, its copper plating drawing it down to the wire. From there the scene was a blur, the glow traveling to the structures built around the circle, and an eerie blue aura enveloping the structures before… the wood blew outward and the glow went into the stones.

Ridcully, moving with an unusual caution, began edging toward the stones, a nail form his hats emergency iron stores held out in front at arms length. About 23 feet from the now glowing stones, where charcoal smouldered and puddles of molten copper bubbled; the nail began tugging out of his fingers. He let it go, and it tumbled toward the nearest stone where it landed with a satisfying _clink_. A cheer erupted, and people began to disembark before the rain hit.

Mustrum strolled, divested of crossbow and hands clenched behind his back, toward Granny Weatherwax, who was staring interestedly at the stones. "Well, thank goodness that it's over with! I couldn't stand any more of that stuff… not like when I was a lad. Mind you, Stibbons has a lot going for him: a good job, big meals, and I shall not forget Ms. Tockley."

_A hand rolled a pair of dice from a skull…_

Esme snorted. "That's the problem these days. Too many people going too fast, trying to practically re-invent the wheel while treating us folks like idiots for trying to get a word in." She paused. "And you're right about Lucy: once she discovered that the old knowledge was actually _worth_ something, she was coming to me near every week, asking for instruction. Between me, Gytha and your boy, she's become something reasonably polite, cautious for her own sake and willing to listen once in a while. Or, as Gytha put it: 'Fine wifin' material fer that spec'teld wizard o' yourn'."

'And _that_, precisely, is the problem', thought Mustrum.

_And tumbled across oceans and fields, before they stopped at the sharp rise on the board._

He coughed. "By the way, what did you think of the new broom?"

_An eye, detached from any sort of body, inspected the die, which had landed with 5 and 4 up._

"_New_? It's ancient! Black Aliss prob'ly had a broom newer than that." Another pause. "But… it does seem to work well, and it looks like it can get a good speed without any sort of running." One last pause happened before she added, quietly. "Thank you."

_"Well now... How convenient: subtracted to the same ages that they were…then." Fate bristled at his obvious cheat, but he could only frown as his eyes, void black, met those of the one that had made the toss. He'd always hated the colour green._

"Don't mention it." He offered his hand to her. After staring at it for about two seconds, she began moving hers toward it, presumably to shake.

_The Lady half-smiled "That, dear fellows, is how you play 'Last Chances'."

* * *

_

No one ever saw the second lightning bolt coming. One minute Esmerelda Weatherwax and Mustrum Ridcully were shaking hands, and the next there was a bright flash of Octarine and a large but shallow crater where they had been. Everyone was gaping at the scene, until someone spotted movement and alerted the crowd with the traditional cry of "LOOK!"

Indeed, a dirt-covered arm was groping over the top rim of the crated, and by the bulk of it, it was most likely Ridcully. The crowd raced toward the hole, the men divesting their iron implements on the fly as not to become permanent fixtures. When they reached the crater, they found two bodies coming to their senses. Gytha was first into the smoking morass, and knelled at the side of the slimmer form, who was currently propping herself up oh her elbows.

Some of the men were helping Mustrum to his feet, and finding him much lighter than a wizard of his age aught to be. Gytha was using a sleeve to wipe some dirt off the face of a protesting Esmerelda… and the voice doing the protesting was… well, different. And the face that was revealed when all the dirt was off…

"Oh, dearie." The rain began falling, washing away the dirt that covered them and revealing the reason why Ridcully had gotten the moniker 'the Brown'.

* * *

1. No offence meant to our guests up on Cori Celesti.

2. Where, it so happened, she had been schooled.

3. It had been deemed appropriate to name the new department with both a euphemism for the general public in mind and the Archchancellors insistence on hygiene in the first place.

4. Otherwise known as Exhibits A and B, respectively.


	4. Introductions old and new

The Theory of Narrativity

Chapter the 4th

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Terry Pratchett owns everything in this series to great effect. No money is being made off of this story.

Description: Things get very strange as Mustrum Ridcully and Esmerelda Weatherwax get the chance to relive their youth in a rather literal fashion. And Ponder Stibbons is… out.

Authors note: there will be several references to reproductive science in this chapter, as well as one reference to the possible savaging of the male genetalia with a walking shoe.

* * *

**Grune 23****rd****, AM 2000, Lancre Castle, Lancre, Discworld **

A group of four huddled around a collection of singed, burned and partially melted objects, inspecting them for some clue as to what exactly had happened to their two acquaintances. The collection of two (formerly) pointed hats, two pair of boots, a cloak, a broach and several pieces of iron was arranged on a table in order of size.

"The hats?" A weary male voice asked. Verence was very near exasperation, for all the curiosity seekers Shawn had been made to turn away in the last hour. Also, the hats were probably the most important symbols of the magic-user… and their owners weren't going to like this one bit.

"Completely destroyed. The Archchancellors fishing lures are all fused; the tip is completely gone… it looks something exploded. The rest of it is pretty much burned to a crisp. Grannies hat isn't much better: the cone is completely burned away. Her hatpins are mostly alright; a bit warped, but alright." This was Magrat, examining the effects of their friends. Their boots suffered only minor damage and the clock and broach were remarkably intact.

"That should be good news for Mistress Weatherwax… right?" Asked Shawn hesitantly. Aside from that… one little complication, it had all ended rather well.

"Shawn…" Began Gytha "I think before we do anything we have to let them sort things out." She said slowly, looking towards a door. Indeed, while Mustrum was enthralled by his new state, Esme was only finding problem after problem.

Meanwhile…

On a bench along the wall of this room, two youths of about 20 sat with their heads hunched. One was a young woman of 21 who, in the correct light, would be considered 'handsome' or in polite company, 'plain' (1). Her pale blonde hair, fresh from getting scrubbed silly, hung loose about her shoulders after many failed attempts to get it set in its usual tight bun. Her features, while angular, did have a fullness and firmness about them that had lacked even this morning.

That's what happens when you get 42 years taken off of you in an instant.

The other youth was a boy of 18. He had brown hair, a beard that was very little more than wiry hairs demonstrating a primitive herding instinct and ears large enough to pick up radio. He was also a bit on the thin side, but not so beanpole scrawny as he had been at 15 or 16 (or as Rincewind currently was). Presently, he was staring intently at his right hand while snapping his fingers.

Eventually a flame of Octarine formed between his fingers. He smiled, looked towards the girl, but noticing her stony countenance, lost said smile. "Esme, you still can't be…"

"That's _Mistress_ Weatherwax, Mustrum Ridcully!" Snapped Esmerelda. She didn't even look at him.

"It's not MY fault we're like this. And besides, doesn't it feel good not to have joint pains for once?" They'd been having this exact same argument every ten minutes for the last hour and besides it getting his nerves on edge, he was beginning to run out of positives in attempting to convince Esme of any benefit of their new state.

"Mustrum…" Esmerelda actually took the time to look at him. "I know _exactly_ what happened. You've been using the 'Memory Lane' line of thought again, and this time it wasn't a mere detour. No, _this _was a sixteen-cart pile-up with 3 broken wrists, a dead ox and molasses everywhere… and now you've got me speaking in mety-fors! I didn't cause this, and it must've been someone what did!"

"Well, maybe someone _did_!" Exclaimed Mustrum, finally breaking under the strain. "Maybe it was a god… or a demon."

"No. Not even a god would be stupid enough to do _this_."

"Why? They afraid you'd climb up the Hub and give them what for?"

"You obviously don't know the reputation I've built up."

And it was true. He hadn't heard anything from her or obviously about her since his departure until the royal wedding. But if the small slice of humanity in the pub earlier was any indication, the witches had _quite_ the reputation, being as widely known in the Ramtops as it was varied: many plains-born mocked them… soon replaced by fear when they witnessed what a witch could do, while locals of their communities treated them with a curious mixture of earned respect and just a little fear at how a witch presented herself. And with the rumours from Genua and the incident at the Ankh Morpork Opera House, Esmerelda and her coven had appeared to cover some distance.

Ridcully sighed quietly. "No, I don't. But I know that we have to find a way to reverse this if we're to show our faces in respected circles again. I can, sort of, understand why you're upset: A witch, especially one with a reputation such as yours, isn't supposed to be a young woman with piercing eyes and flaxen hair (and a nose you could chop wood with) anymore than the Archchancellor of Unseen University is supposed to be a boy with hardly any beard, no meat on his bones and hair that isn't grey." A bit of reflection on his own dilemma had allowed him a little insight, combined with his own crafts use of spectacle and ritual.

"And if we can't find a way to reverse it?" Asked the young Weatherwax, her voice not betraying any twinge of nervousness.

They both knew the answer, and neither of them enjoyed the prospect of having to grow old all over again just to get back to normal.

"Then Neither the Dean nor Recent Runes will ever let me live down being the second youngest Archchancellor in University history." Mustrum grumbled. He'd been haunted by that one thought for the last forty minutes, and was quite bothered by it.

"They're expecting us at the inn for the after-experiment party. We should go." This wasn't an invitation, just an important social fact as conveyed from Esmerelda. Mustrum, being a wizard and thus knowing the importance of social functions of any sort, did get up and head for the door, following Esme.

He just hoped Stibbons was having an easier time of it than he was. He had made quite an idiot of himself earlier trying to make conversation with Ms. Tockley, all because of his odd mixture of curiosity about the situation and worry for the young wizard. And he hoped Stibbons appreciated it.

**Later That Night, Castle Wyvern, Aerie Building, Manhattan, NYC, Earth, July 23****rd**** 2000. **

Ponder Stibbons wasn't quite sure if this job was supposed to be an opportunity for bleeding edge research or a punishment for his wossname with Lucy.

On one hand, what he had already leaned about the connections between these 'Gargoyles', humans and the thaum, could fill a lecture set for an entire school year. He was almost certain that this world was not the same one as the Roundworld in the Micro-Universe; First of all, he had already detected the presence of several gods (which is to say, the lingering presence of one gigantic deity as well as a multitude of minor deities scattered across the globe) and determined a local Thaumic field of about 9.5 thaums, and, as a result, had inferred the existence of at least trace amounts of narrativium, especially on this island. On the other hand, he had already learned from the Librarian that these creatures were being hunted by a group of violent fanatics that had recently lost funding.

On top of that, he was getting some very unusual signals from the tall, blond man with the spectacles.

But, at the moment, the object occupying his full attention was… well; one could call them his 'clients'. Before him stood the great amethyst coloured figure of Goliath, leader of what was probably the largest clan (2) of gargoyles anywhere on earth. Beside him stood his mate and wedded wife, the human female Elisa Maza (who looked to Ponder to be vaguely Klatchian) as well as what look like various elders of this clan.

Beside Ponder himself stood the Librarian, who had been and was acting as an introductory and intermediary force before Stibbons could move a team from the HEM Building though L-space to the facilities here. He would be peaceful, as these beings had been warned about the dangers of the "M word". And behind Stibbons were David Xanatos and Matthew Bluestone, the men who had first brought this couples plight to the wizards attention.

Currently, Goliath held out his taloned hand in greeting. "You are the magus that Bluestone and… Xanatos hired?" he asked. Stibbons noticed the slight pause before the latter mans name, suggesting that there was some reluctance to fully accredit him, and perhaps a sign of some past conflict.

The Librarian nodded an affirmative and promptly sent a sharp nudge into Stibbons' lower thigh in order to get the wizard to actually respond to the greeting.

Stibbons took the males hand and proceeded to shake it. "Well, I am a wizard, if that's what you mean. And I am the one that was assigned to your problem after the Librarian was alerted to this case. The master of my college chose me because, among other things, I'm one of the only staff members interested in the more experimental aspects of magic, such as helping to rectify your problem." The handshake had ended, so the wizard decided to broach the actual subject. "So… you two want to have a baby?"

"Yes, actually." Said the human woman. The initial outline had said that she was one of hundreds of watch-humans in this city, and specifically a street-copper that had enjoyed a long friendship with these gargoyles… and a very apparent and (in the past year) very public romance with their clan leader. "We thought of adopting, but…" She stopped, already looking uncomfortable.

"What the good detective is trying to say is that adoption, while the easy choice on the surface, would be both largely impossible and also considered an unsuitable compromise by all parties." Answered the human David Xanatos in a tone that the man had cultivated over hundreds of high-level (and high stakes) business meetings. "Although anti-Gargoyle sentiment, and more specifically the wish to wipe them from the face of the planet, has waned to the to the point where the clans are in very little danger from the general populace, there is still a… reluctance among some to accept a relationship between a human and a gargoyle as legitimate and not comparable to certain practices involving livestock abuse. While I was doing some private inquiry into the adoption option, I found some of those people at the other end of many conversations. As is such, getting an adoption approved through official channels would be almost impossible. And any informal adoption would most likely reek of scandal." From the look on Detective Maza's face, she was quite surprised, but not quite pleased, to find out that Xanatos had been snooping on her behalf.

"Did you, by chance, try anything else after that avenue was exhausted?" Asked the wizard, knowing (in an academic sense) that there were often other options to this sort of problem, options rarely talked about by the temple-going middle class of Ankh.

"Well…" Started one of the elders, a male, from behind the couple. "There _was_ a suggestion of using a human male's 'sperm' to fertilize one of Elisa's eggs… which I took to mean that Goliath would allow his mate to lay with another man in order for her to be with child. Several possible donors were brought up, but it pretty much collapsed when Elisa basically threatened to castrate Bluestone with her shoe if the discussion went any farther." (3)

At the back of the room, Matthew Bluestone groaned. "For the record, I did not recommend myself. I was actually uncomfortable with it and tried to avoid the whole mess. Until Fox… That would be Mrs. Xanatos, his wife." Matt pointed at David. "Suggested that I be the donor. Like Tammany over there said, it ended right there."

The last of the roundtable explanations then came from the unusual man with the spectacles and what now appeared to be a right fist made out of grey stone. "The last and most ideological reason for wanting an independent pregnancy, of course, comes from the need to both comply with the wishes of Goliath and Detective Maza and to dispel the notion that such a union is bestial in nature by successfully producing offspring."

He glanced towards some of the older members of the committee of Elders. One of them nodded curtly. "There _have_ been legends of Human/Gargoyle pairings resulting in offspring; myths and tales told on lonely battlements out of boredom or lewd rumours exchanged by scullery maids. And usually including dangerous amounts of either direct magic or magical fallout from an earlier spell."

He continued, "One additional clue comes from fossils closely guarded by the (Illuminati) Society. They show that approximately 6000 years ago, Gargoyle kind suddenly changed from a mostly saurian species that possessed only pterosaur-like wings and mouths that were beaked and muzzled into the much more humanlike species possessing hair, humanlike vocal chords, flat humanoid faces and more diverse wing structures. Additional changes included more humanlike genitalia as well as mammary glands in the females."

He paused. "That particular change is actually what forced gargoyle kind to make contact with humanity, with infant hatchlings of the new type needing milk instead of simply smashed meat and plant material for food. For several rookery hatchings, as the story goes, the clans had to rely on human wet-nurses to nurse hatchlings, until the first rookery born with these changes had children of their own, and the females could nurse the young after they hatched."

"And to get to the point," Interrupted Xanatos "these fossils also provide evidence of a retrovirus, one that was apparently responsible for the creation of the species from its dinosaurian origins. This virus was apparently dormant for millions of years until it was reactivated and absorbed various human traits and effectively welded them onto the gargoyle genetic structure. And we believe that it was magic that reawakened it." He walked forward until he stood by Stibbons on his opposite side from the Librarian. "What we want you to do, Mr. Stibbons, is to use the virus to make it so that Goliath and Detective Maza are reproductively compatible. Do you feel it can be done?"

Ponder thought for a moment. "We may have to do some additional research into the Gargoyles breeding cycle… I'll also need to familiarize myself with your devices, of course. But I believe we can affect conception in, say… four to six months."

Everyone in the room then went into a loose huddle, and then, after what sounded like a heated discussion, turned back to the otherworldly pair. It was Elisa Maza who spoke the two most critical words of the entire meeting. "You're Hired." And Stibbons would have been a fool if he didn't see the look of hesitant hope on her face.

At his side, The Librarian gave a quadruple thumbs-up from where he sat and smiled an impossibly wide simian grin. Seeing that, Stibbons still didn't feel entirely happy about this situation, but his feelings did not especially matter at the moment.

He had work to do.

* * *

1. And covered in unused horse bedding, a scarecrow.

2. A term applied mostly because of their past residence on the western coast of the Scottish highlands, while human anthropologists would more likely classify this group as a 'band', owing to their numbers, genetic variance and hunter/gatherer lifestyle.

3. In certain other stories, solutions such as this were used to work around the human/gargoyle incompatibility. In others, magic was used. And in one, there was simple, biological compatibility from the start. I like to think that I am the first writer to bring in _outside_ contractors to help with this dilemma.


End file.
